Parisienne Walkways
by MisguidedGhostTwilighter
Summary: It was Alice. She wasn't alone: she was with another man. She was looking at him in the same way that she looked at Jasper. And that was enough to make him turn on his heel, head back to the hotel, pack his stuff and leave.  ONESHOT


_Parisienne Walkways_

_Summary: _

It was Alice. But she wasn't alone: she was with another man. They were sitting outside a small café and they were talking. She was looking at him... in the same way that she looked at Jasper. And that was enough to make him turn on his heel, head back to the hotel, pack his stuff and leave.

ONESHOT

_Paris, France._

_24__th__ August, 1949._

Somewhere in the heart of Paris, under the view of the Eiffel Tower, there was a small, smoke filled café. The windows, with their expensive curtains, faced out onto an empty street. In front of the café were clusters of chairs and tables, but they, like the street, were unoccupied. The reason for this desertion of the outdoors: rain tumbled down from the sky like a thousand tiny, glossy ballerinas, spinning through the air and pirouetting as they hit the hard, already soaked pavement.

Inside the café, there were two different types of people: tourists from all around the world, with their cameras and loud voices; and the local Parisiennes, who regarded the tourists disdainfully.

Amongst the tourists were a couple whose voices weren't quite as loud; a couple who didn't carry cameras with them everywhere. As far as they were concerned, cameras were unnecessary: why take pictures when the only thing you need will always be here? They were delightfully naive and in love as they sat facing each other, their hands entangled together and their eyes glittering with a thousand secrets and private jokes.

"Jasper," the woman said, her finger running down his muscled fore arm as her eyes traced the face she knew so well. "Can we leave here?"

He smiled – a lopsided smile with thin, chapped lips – and raised one of his sandy brown eyebrows.

"But it's raining, Alice," he responded, not once taking his eyes off her large blue ones.

She smiled mischievously, showing the dimples in her cheeks as her heart-shaped pink lips pulled up at the corners.

"So?" she whispered. "It's a perfect way to ruin these new silk shoes."

Jasper laughed. Alice was always buying expensive shoes and clothes, and then doing impulsive things to ruin them. He wondered at how they managed to afford it all, seeing as he didn't get very much money from the gigs he played.

Jasper stood up and so did Alice, pulling the old, scruffy trench coat off the back of her chair. He watched her pulled it on over her best turquoise dress; sliding her thin, pale arms into the baggy sleeves and tying to frayed belt around her tiny waist. She was like a porcelain doll, and her skin felt just as smooth as a doll's would when she slid her hand into his and they walked out of the café.

The rain instantly saturated Jasper's dark blonde hair; Alice reached up and ran her fingers through it, feeling the curls and waves. Then she moved her hand down, her palm lingering against his cheek. His eyes, which were hazel, gazed down at her with a wonder and love that would have made any other girl blush, but not Alice: she was used to it.

She stood up onto her tip toes and pressed her lips, which tasted of sugar and coffee, against his. He kissed her back, lifting her up of the ground so that she wouldn't have to stretch as far. Her legs wrapped around his waist and the rain fell down on them; it looked like a scene from a photograph, and it had all the requirements for a truly romantic story: kissing, in the rain, in Paris, not caring who was watching.

It was sweet. It was perfect. It was good.

But, as Jasper should've known, all good things must come to an end.

_Walsall, England. _

_22__nd__ August, 1960_

It's been five years, and yet Jasper still hasn't moved on. His hands still feel her fingers; his lips still taste her mouth; his voice still sings sad songs for her.

He's still playing the same gigs that he used to play, in smoky, dusty pubs. He plays the Blues, and people come and listen, but he's nothing special: he's just another white guy, playing the black men's Blues music.

Not much about him has changed since Paris in '49. His hair still falls in the same lazy curls, down past his collar; his fingers still move in the same fluid way along the neck as he plays guitar; his singing voice still has to same lethargic, Texan twang. The only thing that's changed is that, now, he arrives at gigs alone, and there's no girl with big, proud eyes watching him as he plays. Sometimes, his eyes still stray to the bottom right corner of the stage where she should have been standing with her huge smile and her shining eyes and her hands clasped together at her breast.

But she's not there.

She hasn't been there since the 31st August, 1949...

_Paris, France. _

_31__st__ August, 1949._

Jasper and Alice were staying in a hotel opposite the Eiffel tower. They had a room at the back, which faced away from the lofty tourist hotspot; their room looked out onto a narrow, cobbled street filled with cafes and little boutiques, selling exclusive, hand crafted clothes. They were expensive, but Alice loved them.

Jasper woke up at about twenty past nine that morning, when the golden sunlight was slanting through the large window, highlighting the spot in the cream-sheeted bed where Alice had been.

That was unusual, of course, but Jasper didn't worry; Jasper never worried. He assumed that she'd got up early and gone shopping after ruining her silk shoes last night. They'd been the same as the ones she'd ruined when they kissed in the rain, except they'd been pink instead of blue-green. She'd ruined them by running into the sea, causing the colour to fade because of the salt and sand.

It had been a good night, though, Jasper thought, remembering fondly the moonlight on her skin and the sea-spray clinging to her eye lashes like diamonds. But he didn't dwell on memories – why bother, when the present is perfect? – so he got up and dressed, planning to go down to the bakery round the corner and buy a fresh, warm baguette and some cheese.

Twenty minutes later, with some money in his pocket, Jasper stepped out into the sunlight. He smiled as he felt it's warmth through the top of his head and on his face. He walked, totally relaxed and in bliss, around the corner towards the bakery. He could smell it before he reached it – warm and savoury bread, and the sweeter smell of cakes and icing sugar – but he was distracted from that by something else. Something that made him freeze and draw in a startled breath.

It was Alice. But she wasn't alone: she was with another man.

They were sitting outside a small café – the same café that he and Alice had been inside before they kissed in the street – and they were talking. Of course, there was nothing wrong with that; Jasper wasn't the jealous type, and he would probably have just bought some bread before heading over to introduce himself, if it wasn't for the way she was looking at this guy.

She was looking at him... in the same way that she looked at Jasper.

And that was enough to make him turn on his heel, head back to the hotel, pack his stuff and leave. There was no point in talking to her: how she felt about the other man was clear in her coy smile and admiring eyes.

_Walsall, England. _

_22__nd__ August, 1960_

So, now, Jasper is sitting on the battered old leather sofa in the corner of his virtually empty living room, wondering what to do. Last night, on an impulse – so much like Alice that he couldn't resist it – he booked a flight to Paris. Now, there are two options: go, or don't go.

The idea of not going is ridiculous, but the idea of going is terrifying. It will only make him feel worse. He hopes that he sees her there, and yet he knows that he won't, and he's glad of that. What will he do if he bumps into her? What will he say?

But, of course, she won't be there so it's perfectly fine to go.

Yes. He's going to go. It's time to pack a bag hurriedly like he did so many years ago, and head off to the airport.

_Paris, France. _

_23__rd__ August, 1960._

The sun – the same Paris sun that he grew to love back in 1949 – runs its warm, tantalising fingers through his hair, over his face, through his shirt. The cobbled street where he first saw Alice with that other man stretches out in front of him. He's already left his luggage in the hotel that he booked – the same hotel as before, despite the pain it brought him – and now he knows that he doesn't have any choices left. He's here now; he has to do what he came to do. He had to relive every memory he had here with Alice, and then find new ones. He has to love Paris for new reasons; he has to find beauty and joy here that he never experienced before, because that is the only way he can purge the ghost of Paris in 1949 form his system, or at least learn to live with it.

So, with the sun on his back and what feels like a future ahead of him, Jasper takes one step, then another step, and then another, until he is entering the café. The café where he'd spent so much time with Alice; where they'd spent their first evening in Paris.

And then his heart skips a beat. She's here.

She looks different: her black hair, which once flowed in long, glorious waves, has been chopped shorter, so that it stops just before her shoulders; she isn't as thin as she used to be: her hips now curve more, and her cheeks are rounder and pinker; she isn't wearing a dress, which is the strangest thing for Alice, who would before have never even have considered wearing a pair of trousers; the biggest change, though, is the man beside her: instead of wiry, tall, blonde Jasper, as it should have been, there is a shorter, more muscular man with dark red hair trimmed short and neat.

Jasper looks closer at the man; at his tiny moustache and his perfect, tidy features, so different from Jasper's rugged ones. This man, he realises, is definitely the one he had seen talking to Alice all those years ago.

But, now, Jasper realises, he isn't the only one staring in shock; Alice, too, has wide eyes and an open mouth as she spots Jasper in the doorway. He feels a smile spread across his face and envisions her running over to him, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him, like she used to.

But that doesn't happen. Instead, with her huge eyes still focussed on Jasper, Alice reaches across to the man beside her and tugs on his arm. Her mouth forms some words, and then the man is looking too. He looks angry, and frustrated and business like as he strides over to Jasper.

Jasper isn't interested in him, though, or what he might do. He's still staring at Alice, because he's just seen something else; something that he'd never dreamed of seeing; something that made his breath catch in his throat and his chest burn with jealousy.

Hiding behind Alice, wavy black hair on his head, was a cute, chubby, red-cheeked five year old boy.

"Good afternoon, Jasper," says the man who, Jasper assumes, is Alice's husband.

Jasper turns to face him, his fists clenching up in fury. The man has the smarmiest, most stuck-up French accent imaginable, and Jasper wants to punch his lights out.

The man continued to speak, but Jasper wasn't listening; he was past listening now. This man had taken his whole life: his girl, who he'd changed beyond belief; his whole future, and the son he could have had.

"You bastard," Jasper heard himself growling. "What have you done to her? What gave you the right, you stupid frog, what gave you the right to march into my life and take her? My girl, my best friend, my whole life!" his voice is getting louder, and he knows that people in the café are turning around, shocked, but he doesn't care.

"No, wait a-" the French man tries to interrupt, but Jasper isn't going to let him speak.

"No, I won't wait for anything! You ruined me; you took everything from me! And you know what? I'm not ashamed to admit that it hurt me; it hurt like nothing ever hurt before, and it's your fault!"

When Jasper stops shouting, he's breathing heavily and the man his staring with astonishment and a little fear at Jasper's blazing eyes.

Then Alice is there, her hand on her husband's arm and her other hand gingerly on Jasper's. Behind her, the child still clings to her trousers, peering out with a shy, naive terror at the man who was screaming at his daddy.

Alice, despite the controlled, sure expression she has forced onto her face, feels like a child who has just discovered that the world is not as simple as they thought; that Mommy isn't always happy, and Daddy isn't always brave, and Cinderella isn't real. She'd thought that she would know exactly how Jasper would react, in the unlikely event that they met again; that Jasper met Edward. The last thing she had expected was for Jasper to go mental; when she had known him, he had been the calmest, the quietest; the least prone to over reaction.

But, then again, she thinks, that wasn't technically an over reaction.

"Jasper," she murmurs. "This is Edward." She gestures towards her husband, the man Jasper was just shouting at.

Jasper doesn't look at him, though; he's still looking at Alice and she feels herself blush under his gaze. She's suddenly aware of how much she's changed since he last saw her, and how much that might upset him. She looks at him, and feels guilt and sorrow run through her: he's barely changed at all. His hair is a little messier, and there are a few more stubbly hairs growing on his chin, because he hasn't shaved, but apart from that, he's still the same Jasper that she lost; the same Jasper who never said goodbye; the same Jasper who, after a while, she learnt to forget; the same Jasper who still plagued her thoughts every so often; the same Jasper who was the father of her first child: a teenage girl called Jasmine who he knows nothing about.

"Goodbye, Alice," he whispers, his voice cracked and heavy with tears, before turning and walking away from her.

She can feel a lump creeping up her throat and tears burning in her eyes. But she can't cry here, not now. She has to be happy for Edward and for Antoine, her son.

But she can't stay here; she can't let Jasper leave, not again. So, detaching her son's chubby, hot hand from her trousers and removing her hand from Edward's arm, she runs out of the café door and after Jasper.

She calls out his name; he's only halfway down the street, and he turns automatically. She can hear the tears in her voice and feel them on her cheeks; and then he's right in front of her and she realises that he's crying too. But he doesn't hug her, or touch her face or hand; he keeps a space between them; a space that makes Alice feel cold and alone, butt hose emotions aren't new to her.

"Jasper, I..." she croaks out, but doesn't know what else to say.

"Why, Alice?" he whispers. "Why did you leave me for him?"

She frowns. His words make no sense to her, and he sees that clearly in her eyes; he feels a spark of hope jolt through him, and yet he still doesn't touch her. He might be mistaken.

"I didn't leave you, Jasper. You left me."

"But you... you were outside the café, talking to him. Looking at him... in the same way you always looked at me. You... you were in love with him."

Alice shakes her head. "No, I..."

"Alice, I saw how you looked at him."

"But I wasn't going to leave you for him!" she explodes.

Her tears are flowing freely now, and so are his; she wants nothing more than to throw herself into his arms, but she fears that he wouldn't catch her; she fears that his feelings for her have withered, like the rose that she bought last year and intended to leave on his doorstep but never did.

"You don't know that. Admit it, Alice, you loved him."

She has to concede. "Yes. Yes, but... not in the way I loved you. You were everything to me; he was an old flame... my first love. But nothing, nothing compared to you, Jasper, I swear to it!"

Jasper looks away; he can feel his arms itching to wrap around her, but he can't. She'll never be able to stay with him: she has a child with that French bastard now, so she'll never be able to leave him.

"Please, Jasper," she whispers, because she has nothing stronger left in her.

Her eyes... her beautiful eyes... are full of tears and her lips are shaking and quivering. She looks like a stranded cat, left out in the rain; like a sweet angel, dumped out of the gates of heaven.

So Jasper, with his long arms, welcomes her into hell: he wraps his long arms around her shoulders, and she gratefully lets her head fall against his chest. Through the window of the café, Edward and Antoine are watching; Edward with fury, Antoine with confusion.

Eventually, Alice pulls away and Jasper knows that his time is up. He can't expect anymore; she has priorities and responsibilities now; she can't be his impulsive, sweet, little Alice anymore; she can't let her feelings, which have always been strong and sudden, rule her life.

So, he is unbelievably shocked when she says:

"Run away with me, Jasper. Let's go; let's get away. I've missed you; I've missed you more than a cat misses a warm fire; more than a bird misses flying. Let's go, Jasper, and we can be together again."

He looks at her; at her eyes, which are pretty much the only thing about her appearance that haven't changed, and he has two voices warring inside his head. One of them is telling him to go with her; the other is reminding him that he is 31 years old, and he can't go running off like a child. But his age is all the more reason to go with her, the first voice argues; love while you still can.

Jasper doesn't want to think it through anymore; he wants to go with Alice. And he will. He takes her hand and together they run, not sure where they are going, but certain that they are going to have the best time they have ever had.

_New York, USA._

_5__th__ October, 1960. _

They've been everywhere and done everything. They've moved together, kissing and hugging and holding hands and loving, through more countries than Jasper can remember. Alice has danced and smiled and laughed, and Jasper has laughed with her and found joy in her joy, and falling even more in love with grown-up Alice than he thought possible.

But, now, as they sit side by side on a red leather sofa in a New York hotel, Jasper can feel that, like before, this has to come to an end. His hand is in hers, and she can feel herself shaking. She's vowed that, this time, it will be done properly. No misunderstandings; no running away. They have to sort this out sensibly and rationally because, as much as she would like to pretend that they aren't, they are adults now. There are children involved, and they can't stay in the romantic little bubble forever, as perfect and wonderful as that would be.

"Jasper," she says, looking up at the face that she knows so well. "I haven't told you everything."

Jasper sits in silence, waiting.

"I have more than one child," Alice continues. "I have a daughter, called Jasmine. She's eleven and... She's yours."

Slowly, Jasper turns to look at Alice, his eyes widening.

"I have... a daughter? _We_ have a daughter? Does she know?"

Alice nods. "I told her, a few years ago. She wanted to meet you, but... but I was scared and... Edward, he... he wouldn't allow it."

"Edward doesn't have to right to allow or not allow anything. I want to meet my daughter."

Alice smiles up at him, and then her smile falters. Like a crack in a pane of glass, Jasper can see that this situation is not perfect; not entirely transparent.

"What is it, Alice?" he asks.

He needs to know; he needs to have a clean break. It will still hurt, because it's still a break, but it will easier to mend; easier for someone else to fill the gap left, even though nothing will ever be a perfect fit.

"I don't know what to do, Jasper. I love you, but Antoine needs me. I can't just..."

"Things used to be simple, didn't they? Simple and easy. But now... now our live have got complicated."

"Can we be simple, just for now?" Alice murmurs, her voice thick with tears, like her eyes.

In answer, Jasper pulls her close to him and they sit in silence, their arms and legs tangled together. He knows this is the end, and so does she. But a one more night of simple, perfect naive love is worth the pain they'll both suffer after; one more night pretending there were no complications was all they wanted, and they swore to themselves that they wouldn't search for more afterwards.

But they would; it would haunt them for the rest of their lives. Except, they would never get another second chance; they were going to die lonely, wishing they had lived differently; they were destined to live a life full of regret and fake smiles, all because their complications were just too complicated.

_A/N:_

Hey. Hope you like it. I'm going to be writing a long JAlice story at some point, so if you liked this please read that! Have a nice day. Oh, and review! Review! Review! Review! Review! Review! Review! Review! Review!

Please?


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